Verity had some grave concerns over how Valor would conduct herself while the queen was in the house. It was all well and good for her to make boldly ridiculous statements and complaints when it was only family, but not within the queen’s hearing.
“Valor, I will remind you that the Queen of England is going to attend the wedding. You must be on your very best behavior and say nothing to offend.”
“I never say anything to offend,” Valor said sulkily.
Winsome snorted. Verity said, “It is an actual crime to offend the queen. You shall not like Papa to go to prison over it?”
“That’s right,” Winsome said. “You are too young to be locked up so Papa would have to go in your place.”
Valor leapt off the bed as if it had caught fire and raced to the door.
“Where are you going?” Verity asked.
“To tell Thomas I put sugar in the salt cellars on the table so he can fix it!”
Valor disappeared out the door. Verity sighed as Winsome put the delicate diamond necklace around her neck and did the clasp.
“Do not worry about Valor, she’ll be all right now that she thinks Papa might have to pay for her crimes,” Winsome said. “Are you ready? Really ready to get married?”
“Very ready,” Verity said.
Winsome seemed pensive. “I know I let Valor do all the complaining, but it really is sad that we are not all together anymore. Now I’ll go home with just Valor.”
“But there is always the London season every year, Winsome. That’s when we can all be together.”
“I know, but will you not miss the Dales?”
“I will, but it’s time for me to make my own home now. It will be your turn next year.”
“I hardly feel ready.”
“But you will, when the time comes.”
Mrs. Right bustled into the room. “Everybody but for the queen has arrived, including Lady Lilith. You ought to go down, your fiancé is looking in fine form.”
Of course he would do. Wembly always looked in fine form.
Another worry clutched at Verity’s heart. She’d been assured nothing could go wrong there, but had that been right? “Mr. Amesbey, the curate from Grosvenor Chapel? Has he come?”
“Oh, aye, he’s here,” Mrs. Right said with a chuckle. “Though I think he is still on the fence over whether or not I might have sold my soul to the devil, as I hinted to him last year. Further weighing on his mind, the queen will come to hear his delivery. He is upright, but I think he feels it.”
Verity nodded. Last season, Mrs. Right had managed to convince another one of Lady Marchfield’s butlers, Mr. Cremble, that she was in league with the devil. Mr. Cremble had brought in Mr. Amesby to, well, she was not sure what—get the devil outof Mrs. Right? In the end, Mr. Cremble took himself off, and he was to get Lord Marchfield’s living, so everything had worked out rather splendidly for him. However, Verity supposed the whole thing had left Mr. Amesby wondering what went on in the duke’s house.
“I wouldn’t fret over it,” Winsome said. “At least we do not have to contend with that scoldy Bishop Porteus. In any case, once the curate sees that the queen attends us, he will not dare speculate that Mrs. Right has gone to the devil.”
Verity nodded. Bishop Porteus had indeed been frightening. At least to everyone but for the duke. She gave herself a little shake. She wished to throw off all worry and fear—she was going to be married. Bishops, queens, curates, none of it mattered. She was going to be married to Henry Foster, Baron Wembly, and he was divine.
